


Dareth shiral, Abelas

by cyran9



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, F/M, Gen, Mythal - Freeform, Red Templars, Sentinels, Skyhold, Solas - Freeform, Temple of Mythal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:08:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3658374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyran9/pseuds/cyran9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Inquisition flees the Temple of Mythal, Abelas and his Sentinels must confront the red Templars and Corypheus. </p><p>The loss of the Well of Sorrows, the loss of the Temple of Mythal...so many losses leave Abelas seeking a new purpose. </p><p>This piece was written to accompany <a href="http://thesnowmage.tumblr.com/post/114658486075/what-lies-on-the-horizon-after-ages-of-servitude">thesnowmage's</a> beautiful piece of art of Abelas on her tumblr.<br/>Thank you for inviting me to collaborate with you on this piece!!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dareth shiral, Abelas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thesnowmage](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thesnowmage).



After the Inquisition fled the Temple through the eluvian the Sentinels raged against Corypheus and the red Templars. Mythal’s temple had already been defiled, there was nothing left to save. Many of the Sentinels fought because this was their duty, their home, and they fought to preserve what was left of the Elvhen culture entombed within the shrine. Abelas led them in the defense, standing at the front of the line with his staff, fire searing from his fingers as the Templars crumbled and burned to ashes at his feet. The Sentinels had trained and fought for a millennia, the last great Elvhen warriors, and now they fell one by one and were twisted into abominations.

Abelas stood alone in the aftermath, the Sentinels…his Sentinels…dead at his feet and their blood upon his hands. Corypheus had decimated his men as Abelas had destroyed his Templars. In the end, they faced one another, surrounded by carnage and waste. Corypheus demanded his submission and surrender, to serve him, and he would let him live. 

Abelas tossed his staff at the magister’s feet. “I am already dead.” The magister was disgusted at the loss of a conquest and left Abelas standing amongst the dead. 

The temple was now a tomb and the silence seemed to echo from the ancient walls. Abelas whispered one last prayer to Mythal to guide his Sentinels home and to find peace for the souls of the Templars. Afterwards, as he stood in the blood that covered the floor in great, dark rivers he began to remove his armor. 

His greaves were unbuckled and fell to the floor upon a dead archer. His leg vambraces were unstrapped and landed with a heavy clunk next to a Templars helmet. His chest guard was unbelted and landed with a great clang as it slid across the wet floor and came to rest next to a headless body. His underarmor was deeply stained. His cloak was torn with gashes from blades he had danced out of reach to avoid. He pulled up his hood to cover his face, retrieved his staff, and deftly stepped over the bodies of his fallen Sentinels. 

He stood at the great doors that marked the entrance to Mythal’s shrine, sealed them shut, and caved in the walls around them. The glistening crystal doors shattered and splintered. They had stood for a millennia. They stood no more. Abelas left the temple and did not look back. 

Abelas walked the woods until they opened up to a valley, stopping at the first river he came upon. He removed his hood and cloak, and waded deep within the warm waters. The blood seeped from his clothing, leeching crimson rivers that flowed downstream. The blood of his people mixed with the blood of the Templars in the rivers that belonged to Mythal. There was a sort of peace in that thought. 

As the sun set, Abelas sat on the hill overlooking the river and the great plains that flowed around it in the valley. His clothes were drying on a branch, his leather hood and cloak lay in the clover at his feet to soak in the raw smell of the earth instead of the smells of smoke, fire, and death that clung to them when he left. 

He felt exposed without his hood and cloak. They were a symbol of his status, his station; it marked him as a devotee to the gods. It defined who he was. Without his hood his hair was loose and small tendrils were being blown about by the wind. The Order of Sentinels wore their hair plaited and bound or they shaved their heads in honor of the ancient Elvhen. Abelas had kept his plaited and bound for so long that he had failed to notice how long it had become. 

Long, graceful fingers pulled the length of his hair around his neck to be untied. The silken, ivory lengths unraveled quickly leaving the thick mass in loose waves that poured down his chest. The hair had been shaved from the sides long ago on both sides of his head, leaving a thick swath of hair down the center whose lengths reached to the middle of his back. The thick tendrils swirled about his face as the wind picked up and rolled through the valley. 

He no longer knew where he belonged. He was without purpose. The sun shone on his face where before there had only shone candlelight and veilfire. The Elvhen named Solas had said there were others like him, perhaps other gods to serve. But Solas was not who he said he was, having discarded an old name to take a new one as Abelas had done once before. Abelas recognized him from an ancient time, a time when they were both young, Arlathan still stood, and the people did not say the name Fen’Harel with a snarl upon their lips. Solas had his reasons just as he had his own. A new name meant a new life. 

Figures of men in armor were cresting on the near horizon. Abelas stood, drew on his breeches, donned his hood and cloak, and stood ready with his staff. He leaned upon it casually, fingers wound about it in such a way that he could wield with a mere flick of his wrist and immolate them if need be. 

The soldiers approached and hailed him with warm greetings. One was shem, one was elven and covered in rudimentary valasslin that marked them as Falon’din’s. These Dalish elves were no better than shem in their lack of understanding of Elvhen lineage and history, he thought sadly.

“Hail, friend! We greet you in the name of the Inquisition!” Abelas’ eyes narrowed. This was the second time he had heard that name today. The woman who possessed Fen’Harel’s mark, the Inquisitor they had called her, had paid homage to Mythal by completing the rites of passage and honoring the temple. In the end she had drank from the Vir’abellasan but not before asking for permission. She alone now possessed the wealth and knowledge of the Elvhen and the will of Mythal. 

“Hail to you as well, Inquisition. What is it you seek?” These soldiers were green and unaware of the danger they had walked into willingly. Luckily for them, he wished no altercation here. 

“We’re looking for those in need of shelter and food. The Inquisition offers assistance to refugees. If you seek shelter we have a camp just east of here. We also seek volunteers. Any able hands are welcome.” The shem was enthusiastic and optimistic, overly trusting. The elf eyed his staff and torn cloak, the hallmarks of a former hunter. 

Abelas eyed the elf. “What of mages, da’len? How does your Inquisition view mages?” The elf met his amber eyes and swallowed hard. 

“The Inquisition offers refuge to all…our Herald is a mage. Skyhold is the sanctuary for the persecuted, friend. You..I mean, mages…can seek refuge there.”

The soldiers shared a loaf of bread and then continued on their way. Abelas spent the night under the branches of a great elm. He could not remember the last time he had slept under starlight. His prayers to Mythal floated upwards to the heavens with the smoke from the fire. The next morning he donned his cloak and hood and began the trek east. 

Seven nights passed before Abelas entered the gates of Skyhold. It was as they had said; a refuge for the lost and broken. Shems, elves, dwarves, and descendants of the Kossith all working together. Abelas sent word with a messenger to seek audience with the Inquisitor. He awaited her at the doors to the great hall. 

The Inquisitor, the woman they called the Herald of Andraste, looked smaller without her armor and entourage of companions. She held her head high, shoulders back, with confidence and a neutral expression. She strode towards him, illuminated by the ornate stained glass windows of the hall. 

“Andaran atish’an, friend. We have met before” she said. Abelas nodded ever so slightly. 

“Aneth ara, lethallan.” Of the elves he had encountered since leaving the temple she was the only one worthy of being called one of his people. She had earned the right with her reverence for Mythal. 

The Inquisitor searched him with her eyes, assessing the potential dangers Abelas may pose. 

“Inquisitor, I have heard of your tales, spoken with your people, and walked among your refugees. By all accounts, you are a fair ruler worthy of leadership. I offer you my assistance in your cause.” If she was surprised she contained it well. Her gaze was honest and unassuming. 

“I am no ruler. What do you seek in return, Abelas?”

“I seek to serve a noble purpose, Herald. Is that a path you offer here, Inquisitor?” His eyes met hers in a challenge. He admired the fact that she did not flinch. 

“I seek to defeat Corypheus. If I can help our people, provide succor to those in need, and prevent further persecution of mages then I will do all in my power to do so.”

Abelas’ eyes narrowed. “That is much for one to accomplish in one lifetime. How do you aim to accomplish such lofty ideals?”

Her features warmed and she looked about at the people in her hall. “With the help of people like these. And with the help of people like you, Abelas.”

Abelas studied her delicate features. How curious that such delicacy could conceal a spine as strong as silverite. She reminded him of the goddess he had so lovingly served for a millennia. 

Abelas pulled his hood back from his face. His pale tendrils of hair tumbled loose and flowed down his chest as he tossed the hood and cloak upon the floor, the last reminders of his past life. 

“Abelas is dead. I come to serve, Inquisitor.” She understood and she smiled at him warmly. 

“Dareth shiral, Abelas. What shall I call you, friend?”

He began to feel the slight tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth, an expression that had escaped him for so long that it felt foreign to his face. 

“Thank you. My name is Revas.” He bowed before her. 

“Welcome, Revas. I hope you find what you seek here.” 

She touched him lightly on the shoulder as she passed, instructing her advisors to see to his needs. He watched her as she descended the steps into the courtyard to assist with the mending of the wounded. 

The lone Sentinel leaned upon his staff as he observed this Herald of Andraste, the bearer of the souls of the Vir’abellasan, and vessel of the will of Mythal. She was worthy of the honor. He would serve her until his last breath or keep watch over her bones when her breath finally ceded. 

He once again had a purpose.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr link to thesnowmage's Abelas art  
> http://thesnowmage.tumblr.com/post/114658486075/what-lies-on-the-horizon-after-ages-of-servitude


End file.
